


Rot

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Bad Ending, Divergent Timelines, Gen, Poignant, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Shougo had stayed captured after Nona Tower, if he hadn't slipped away and had instead been confined, would that spark have remained as bright?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rot

The isolation cell is lit with harsh, white light the first time you visit him after his incarceration. You almost miss him: a pale man made paler by the colouration of his room, kept company by a stack of his favourite books. His library, you had heard - and seen - contained so many old and long-abandoned tomes that the current pile seems a sad, lonely representative of thoughts and knowledge lost.

He swings his feet off the bed and smiles at you, warm and welcoming. You're his first visitor, he tells you as he saunters towards the door. A holo-panel appears on the glass between you, taking a measure of his hue. An orange notice box pops up as well, which he ignores. Although you've stared into the eyes of would-be murderers before, somehow the eyes of one with blood on his unrepentant hands are not what you expect. His deep, thoughtful, penetrative gaze keeps you mute until you recall yourself.

You're unable to hide the distaste in your tone as you rap out the reason for your visit. If it were up to you, you would have left him to rot alone amongst his dead authors - or better yet, join them. Sibyl has yet to pass its judgement upon this man, and truthfully the thought of the bastard on the other side breathing even one more day of air makes you sick with anger. But the system will have its procedure, and he, a lowly Enforcer, can do little else other than rail at the bureaucracy like a dog barking on the end of its chain.

He listens passively as you talk, arms folded, waiting for you to finish. His eyes flicker down as you come to the end of your request and you swear you can almost see the thought process ticking over behind the expressionless face. You are, after all, the sole individual who understands him. Perhaps the sole person who can predict him.

A flash of gold catches your gaze and your attention. He gives you the answer you expect because you have already arrived at the same conclusion three days ago.

"But," he adds after he's done, already starting to turn back to his bed and his books, "you already knew that. You've probably already solved the case. So why bother asking me?"

You're sure your face has given nothing away. He's glancing back at you, waiting for your reply. Once again you see the canny mind lurking behind those polished irises, ever observant, ever quick. You're reminded that this is the man who has played a game with you and nearly won.

You would give him a frank response, but the microphone concealed behind your tie is recording this conversation. So you thank him tersely and turn away. Except as you do, you can almost swear you hear a chuckle from behind the door and feel eyes on your back as you return to the outside world.

He has a different set of books during your next visit. The room seems dimmer - or perhaps he seems duller - because there's a tiredness to his face that you're pretty sure isn't your imagination. But perhaps he has always looked this way and you have only wanted to see a remorseless, emotionless killer. Perhaps in your pursuit of him you have forgotten that, like you, he is only human.

What problem had you brought for him this time, he asks before you can open your mouth to speak. He doesn't look your way, intent on the pages of his well-thumbed novel.

As before, you give him a run-down of the situation. This time it isn't a recent case but an old, unsolved serial murder. Rare, and presumably committed by someone just like Makishima. The man pretends to keep reading but you know he's listening closely from the way he stops turning pages and how his eyes focus on a single point. By the end, he starts to laugh. Quietly at first, and then a helpless deluge which takes you by surprise with its bitter cynicism.

That's one of his, he tells you. He's put his book down, sat up, and is giving you an amused smile. What did you want to know about the incident? The method? The cover-up? The motive? He comes to the door again, leans in and rests a hand on the glass. His hungry gaze reminds you of that night atop Nona tower, when he stood above you unfolding his cutthroat razor while thanking and bidding you farewell.

You catch the name Agatha Christie on the tail end of your memory. He has already moved away by the time you shake yourself sober to rewind the conversation over. He goes to stand by his bedside table and caresses the spine of one of his books, which means you don't see the fatigue in his face or the dull apathy that afflicts him upon your departure. You've already put him out of your mind and are dialling Gino to give him the news while he sprawls on his bed with an arm flung across his eyes.

"Boring," he utters to the room.

Subsequent visits over the month see Makishima growing more listless and disinterested in the cases you bring him. The pale man languishing in his cell seems to grow fainter with each passing day, like a fading spirit. You don't try to wonder why that is when the system still continues to supply the books he asks for from his library, when the man hardly wants for company from the number of people visiting him each week. Kasei herself makes the trip to see their unique prisoner once every week. To determine the extent of his crimes, she says. To do nothing of the sort, Makishima tells you.

Whatever the case, you ignore the tightened corners of his mouth and the closed off gaze that begins to stare more at walls than into your eyes.

Eventually you see him for what you hope is the final time. Makishima's sentence is to be carried out in a few days, so your visit is more one of courtesy than any desire to look upon his face. The lights are off in his cell, turned off by the facility or by Makishima himself. You find yourself knocking gently on the door rather than rapping on it, like you usually do.

A pale shape shifts in the darkness. He sits up in bed, a vague silhouette swallowed by an abyss. This time he does not approach the door.

"Kougami?" comes his voice, slightly muffled by the door's two-way comm.

Yes, you reply. He sighs, or you think he sighs. When you inform him of his execution date, he lifts his head. Whatever expression he wears, you cannot see it for the shadows draped over his visage.

"Ah, really?" he asks. Faint surprise colours his toneless voice. Like he had forgotten about time's progress despite the centimetres or so added to the length of his hair and rough trim of stubble on his chin. His voice limps out of the dimness like a worn out ghost. "Thank you."

When you turn away this time, it's with the unshakeable feeling that you've committed some wrong.

 

Execution day arrives and you're allowed to watch as Sibyl's guards remove him from the facility. It's a gracious act only permitted on the strength of Akane's arguments and guarantee that she'll keep you from running your leash. Sibyl doesn't want you near him, doesn't want the risk of this threat to their society to be set loose by a rabid dog at the last minute.

Steely clouds stir ominously above, casting even the brightest white as grey. He looks like ash now, ready to be scattered to the four winds, as he's led by the firm grips of his human escorts. The head once held so proudly is now bent. Not by guilt; never guilt.

You and she watch as he's led down the stairs to the waiting paddy wagon. Across from you he suddenly stops, digs in his heels against the tug of his guards. His listless head rises to meet your gaze, dull gold flecked with despair.

A rough hand breaks your eye contact with him and he's shoved into the back of the wagon. The doors close, and Akane's hand denies you your last chance to glimpse his slumped figure.

As the flashing red sirens pop up and the vehicle begins to move, heavy rain sheets down from the skies. Their cold is not the reason for the clench your heart makes as the wagon's dark form melts into the road, nor are the drops clinging to the end of your nose and hair the reason for your restless irritation.

All you can think is that _this is not how it is meant to be._


End file.
